“Pay? I’m not a McDonald’s whore, mister!” The young lady storms away, her four-inch heels clacking against the tile floor while the beep, beep, beep of another food order sounds in the background.

“Ittura, we have to leave! We have to get out of here. Now!” I take long strides toward the door. I glance over my left shoulder and Ittura is not moving. He’s sitting there with his stupid grin and empty eyes. He is shaking his head back and forth slowly. I reluctantly return to the booth.

“Ittura, please, I am pleading with you. Take. Me. Home.” I’m doing my best to control my temper. I’m doing my best to pretend that all of it is somehow normal.

“This is all part of the problem,” Ittura says calmly, “and why you have to take a journey with me. You just don’t get it. You just don’t understand how it all works.”

I am now his prisoner. I am now at the mercy of a dead man’s spirit inside of a McDonald’s in a strange city. I have been told “F-you” and I have watched a dead guy eat a Filet-O-Fish. And to think that only an hour ago I was complaining about my tiny congregation. I wish I was back inside my log church.

Ittura looks up. “Ah, a city bus. I love public transit—don’t you, Father?” Ittura gets up and goes to the shelter to wait for the approaching bus. I stand next to him and shake my head.

“Do you even know how to get on and off a bus?” I ask.

“Of course, Father. I do it all the time when I’m in town. It’s cheaper than a taxi and you get to look at all the girls. And I don’t have to drive. It’s enjoyable. I’d like to just settle down for a bit. I think you should too. A bus ride is a healthy choice!”

The bus stops and a woman steps off. Ittura falls into a trance. His mouth falls open. His dull eyes start to light up. The woman slides past both of us, her iPhone plugged into her ears, her sunglasses reflecting what we both look like. I see that reflection and gulp in a huge bubble of air. We look homeless. God help us.

The bus driver leans toward the door and shouts, “All aboard, boys! I gotta schedule to maintain over here.” Ittura steps into the bus, drops a couple of coins and a five-dollar bill into a glass container.

“We’re squared up, sir!” he shouts back at the driver and chuckles.

“You boys dressed up for K-Days?” asks the driver.

“You bet we are, sir,” says Ittura. “But we’re headed over to Whyte Avenue first. Gonna check out the merchandise over that way. If you know what I mean.” Ittura winks his right eye at the driver, who roars with laughter.